i am a little church
by starkravingcap
Summary: Howard watches the way that Tony organizes the blocks, how he waits patiently for the swaying of the block tower to stop before adding to it. Tony's got these lights in his eyes that dance when he's thinking, and Howard knows how intelligent his son is, how brilliant his mind is, and suddenly this little boy is more than just a bundle of cells that share his genes – he's his boy.


Howard is used to finding Tony in places he shouldn't be. He's a six year old boy, and despite Howard's protestations, Maria insists just that – that he is _child_¸ and that getting into trouble is part of growing up. There's a part of Howard that knows she's right, because he used to be a child too, and he's sure he was just as destructive. Tony is no different from him, the newspapers assure him. He sees the headlines. He reads them. He keeps the papers shoved in the top drawer of his desk. _"Anthony Stark, age four, builds first circuit board", "Stark dynasty – a new age for technology", _they're all titles that make this side of him, the side that knows Tony is just a little boy with a great big brain, ache.

The other part of him is tired. Just, _so_ _tired. _

He takes the stairs down to his workshop two at a time. It's a big, sprawling room in the basement of the mansion that spans almost half the width of the house itself. His life is in there, past the walls, the steel workbenches, the computers and the scribbled equations in black marker on glass panes. All of these material, intellectual things – they encompass him. They always have. Howard plays around with the lock keypad until the door clicks, and he pushes it open.

The workshop is cold. Howard keeps it cold because it helps him think, it snaps him into focus and keeps his mind on the project at hand. He rubs his hands together and looks around. There's noises coming from the corner, back behind where his desk sits, covered in papers and books and absolute nonsense. He can't help the sigh that tumbles from his lips, and his chest tightens with a twinge of guilt.

"Tony?"

The noises stop for a brief moment, but then they start up again, softer and more muted, like someone is trying to hide their presence. Howard steps towards the desk, peeks around the corner as patiently and as calmly as he can muster. Tony is seated in the corner of the room with his back to the wall. His hair is a dark mess of curls and wisps that stick in every which way, his hands busied by the blocks he's got on the floor in front of him. They're wooden things, colored and fading, and Howard is almost certain that Maria's mother gave them to him. He's got a tower going that sways with the weight of the blocks, back and forth, back and forth.

"Tony." Howard says, and he tries to make his voice soft. It comes out sharp and stern, and he kicks himself, because Tony _flinches_.

The little boy looks up, eyes blown wide and brown and full of something that Howard doesn't know how to describe. His hands pull away from the blocks slowly and he blinks, all long black lashes. The blocks keep swaying, and Tony watches the way that they move out of the corner of his eye.

"Tony, what're you doing down here?" Howard crouches down in front of his son, resting his hands on his knees. He runs his tongue across the back of his teeth. Tony shifts from his place on the floor and uncrosses his legs. He grabs another block off of the floor and stacks it on top of the others.

"Playin'."

Howard watches the way that Tony organizes the blocks, how he waits patiently for the swaying of the block tower to stop before adding to it. Tony's got these lights in his eyes that dance when he's thinking, and Howard knows how intelligent his son is, how brilliant his mind is, and suddenly this little boy is more than just a bundle of cells that share his genes – he's his boy.

And he can't bring himself to say _any _of that.

"You know you're not supposed to play down here," Howard says, and he reaches out to grab one of Tony's hands. Tony pulls it back and pokes at the base of his block tower, staying silent.

Something in his chest pulls, and it's hard for him to breathe. Howard watches the tower of blocks fall, clattering to the ground and tumbling out of Tony's reach. Tony reaches out and corrals them back in, starting a new pile, a new tower, finding the weaknesses and the strengths of each method of stacking. He's computing all of this, studying these toys like they're machines, and Howard wants to abandon it all; he wants to know what it's like to be normal, to have a normal life and family and son. He _needs_ it, and he can't have it, because this is the name he has made for himself – this is Howard Stark.

"Daddy, help me build a tower." Tony's voice is quiet and soft, and echoes off the walls of the workshop. He _should_ be playing with these blocks, not designing engine blueprints after supper while watching cartoons.

Howard closes his eyes, breathes in sharply, and then opens them again. This is hard for him, and it's not fair to Tony, because it shouldn't be hard for him and he should love his son like a father should love his son, and the tired part of him tells him that he can't do this. Not right now.

He grabs a colored block, a purple one, and holds it in his hand. The surface is wooden, smooth and rough at the same time, with patches of flaking paint. Howard stares at it, clenches his fist around it, holds it out to Tony. The little boy watches with those curious brown eyes, taking the block from his father.

"I have to work, Tony," Howard _hates_ himself, he's never hated himself more than now, and instead of reaching out and grabbing the blocks, instead of playing with his son, he gets to his feet and looks down at him. When he meets Tony's eyes, the lights in them are gone, "Daddy has to work."

He looks around, but there's no one else there, no Jarvis, no nannies, and so he leans down and picks Tony up, feeling his weight against his side. Tony clings to him, his arms wrapped around his neck, face nuzzled in by his collarbone. They take the steps together, one at a time, and Tony's cheek is resting against Howard's shoulder now. The little boy stares at the wall blankly.

"Maria," Howard calls, and his voice echoes back at him in the empty living room, "Maria, I need to work."

There are words on his tongue, '_I need you to take him'_, and '_He's been in the workshop again',_ but he bites them back and hands his son to his wife. She takes Tony, holds him and kisses him on the cheek, and she and Howard share a glance. Maria gives him a tight-lipped, dead smile.

"Get to work," she offers, and Howard tries the same smile, because going through the actions sometimes lets them forget that none of this has been real for a very long time now.

"Yeah." Howard says, and then he's leaving, back to the workshop, running his hand over his face.

He's tired. He's so, so tired. He can hear Tony's voice ricochet off the walls as he turns the corner, quiet and sad, and he knows his son has his face pressed into his Maria's neck.

"Mommy," he says, no louder than a mouse, "Daddy doesn't love me, does he?"

Howard closes his eyes and keeps on going.


End file.
